Fair warning; this thread may wind up being about as gooshy as a hug from Oprah Winfrey, as sickeningly sweet as a cluster of Hallmark cards. But I tell a lot of stories that deal with people being stupid or mean, and I think it's important that people are reminded now and again that not everyone is like that. If you have a story about something someone did for you that changed your life or changed the way you look at things for the better, post it here. There are way too many of the bad people, so we need to take the time to appreciate the good ones.
I've been accused of being cynical before. I've also been accused of being naieve. I've never been religious, but instead these days I believe implicitly in the limitless capacity of the human soul, in our potential for kindness and beauty. All of this is because of something that happened when I was sixteen. I will remember it until I die.
At sixteen years old, I was a pretty sullen little misanthrope. My relationship with my mother was shot, my two best friends had just moved to another province, and my homeroom teacher was a woman who saw my tiny bit of native-american heritage (not even enough to get status) as a reason to continually lobby for me to be put into "special ed" classes -- this woman would wind up later getting fired for racism in a pretty spectacular manner, but for most of the school year she made my life miserable. At one point, she told me to "hurry up and just drop out like all the rest of you".
I'm not saying any of this to garner sympathy, but when you're sixteen everything seems bigger than you and it's easy to forget that people have it worse than you do.
So I decided to run away. Of course.
My uncle had left home when he was my age and spent some time travelling and working in different places throughout the country, and I saw no reason why I couldn't do the same. I cleared out my savings account (seven hundred dollars) and bought a bus ticket for Calgary. I got as far as Edmonton before something happened.
If you've never had an Edmonton winter, they're nothing to sneeze at. The snow is powder-fine, undulating across the sidewalks in ribbons pushed by a continuous wind, and stings like needles against your bare skin. The sky is dark by four in the afternoon, and the temperature drops below zero, whereupon the snow will usually begin to fall harder, and frequently made it up as high as my hip.
On this evening, I'm standing outside the terminal while I wait for my next bus. Needless to say I'm having second thoughts about all this, but pride is a funny thing. It exaggerates all your hurts and makes you sullen and immovable. My hands are jammed in the pocket of my coat, which is thick, heavy, obviously well-made and expensive. Even outside I am warm.
I am feeling spectacularly sorry for myself as the man comes over to me.
He's homeless. I mean, why else would you be out in weather like this in such flimsy clothing? The long cuffs of his jeans are frayed and dark with mud and water, and the shoes are all wrong for the cold -- cheap supermarket bin sneakers, soaked through and trailing laces like limp earthworms in the slush on the sidewalk. He's older than I am, at least fourty, and his ears have gone white with cold. He asks me, very politely, if I have any spare change.
Do I have change? I have seven hundred dollars in my pocket, a heavy meal in my belly, but I'm sixteen years old and all that matters is my own wounded pride and hurts. "I don't have anything." I snap in reply. I can feel tears of self-pity pricking at my eyes, and I hate myself for them, which only makes me angrier as I scrub the heels of my palms against them like a baby. "I don't even have a quarter to call home, okay?"
Instead of moving on, instead of calling me the liar that I obviously was, he gives a funny sort of sigh, a soft 'aahh' of comprehension or maybe just sympathy. "Don't do that." he says in the gentlest voice I've ever heard. He fishes in his pocket, takes my hand, and presses something into it. "You go home and be safe and warm, sweetheart. This is no place for you. Get someone to come for you and be safe and warm."
He turns and walks away, as I stand there staring dumbly after him, the quarters he's just passed me feeling like they weigh a hundred pounds in my hand.
I really can't explain how I felt at that particular moment, but it was like the entire world had suddenly rotated a hundred and eighty degrees beneath my feet. Here I was, sulky and in good health, pocket filled with more money than this guy might see in the next year, and he'd given me some of the only money he had because he felt sorry for me. Because he wanted me to be safe and warm. I remember that very clearly. Safe and warm.
I finally unglued my feet and ran after him, leaving my suitcase on the sidewalk. The guilt was incredible, the sudden glimpse into my own staggering self-pity and absorption almost crippling in the face of that one unquestioning kindness. I wanted to find him, to apologise, to give him everything I had.
I looked for over an hour, and I never found him. I kept enough money for a return ticket and gave the rest away to the other people I found sleeping on benches or sitting in their 'houses' made of cardboard and blue tarp. By the time I got back to the station, my suitcase had been stolen. It didn't matter.
I suppose this is why I take it so hard when people are cruel or unfeeling, the way I used to be, why I get so angry about it. I'm nowhere near perfect -- I still have too much of a temper, for instance, tend to carry grudges for too long. But at least now I understand that the world begins and ends with everyone. Some people may not believe this story, which is fine, because frankly, I don't care. I know there are people out there with great beauty in them like I saw that day, and I hope everyone has the chance to see it in their lifetime. Or to display it themselves. Everyone should be safe and warm.
So . . . yeah. You can make fun of me if you like, but I felt like sharing. Anyone else?
I've been accused of being cynical before. I've also been accused of being naieve. I've never been religious, but instead these days I believe implicitly in the limitless capacity of the human soul, in our potential for kindness and beauty. All of this is because of something that happened when I was sixteen. I will remember it until I die.
At sixteen years old, I was a pretty sullen little misanthrope. My relationship with my mother was shot, my two best friends had just moved to another province, and my homeroom teacher was a woman who saw my tiny bit of native-american heritage (not even enough to get status) as a reason to continually lobby for me to be put into "special ed" classes -- this woman would wind up later getting fired for racism in a pretty spectacular manner, but for most of the school year she made my life miserable. At one point, she told me to "hurry up and just drop out like all the rest of you".
I'm not saying any of this to garner sympathy, but when you're sixteen everything seems bigger than you and it's easy to forget that people have it worse than you do.
So I decided to run away. Of course.
My uncle had left home when he was my age and spent some time travelling and working in different places throughout the country, and I saw no reason why I couldn't do the same. I cleared out my savings account (seven hundred dollars) and bought a bus ticket for Calgary. I got as far as Edmonton before something happened.
If you've never had an Edmonton winter, they're nothing to sneeze at. The snow is powder-fine, undulating across the sidewalks in ribbons pushed by a continuous wind, and stings like needles against your bare skin. The sky is dark by four in the afternoon, and the temperature drops below zero, whereupon the snow will usually begin to fall harder, and frequently made it up as high as my hip.
On this evening, I'm standing outside the terminal while I wait for my next bus. Needless to say I'm having second thoughts about all this, but pride is a funny thing. It exaggerates all your hurts and makes you sullen and immovable. My hands are jammed in the pocket of my coat, which is thick, heavy, obviously well-made and expensive. Even outside I am warm.
I am feeling spectacularly sorry for myself as the man comes over to me.
He's homeless. I mean, why else would you be out in weather like this in such flimsy clothing? The long cuffs of his jeans are frayed and dark with mud and water, and the shoes are all wrong for the cold -- cheap supermarket bin sneakers, soaked through and trailing laces like limp earthworms in the slush on the sidewalk. He's older than I am, at least fourty, and his ears have gone white with cold. He asks me, very politely, if I have any spare change.
Do I have change? I have seven hundred dollars in my pocket, a heavy meal in my belly, but I'm sixteen years old and all that matters is my own wounded pride and hurts. "I don't have anything." I snap in reply. I can feel tears of self-pity pricking at my eyes, and I hate myself for them, which only makes me angrier as I scrub the heels of my palms against them like a baby. "I don't even have a quarter to call home, okay?"
Instead of moving on, instead of calling me the liar that I obviously was, he gives a funny sort of sigh, a soft 'aahh' of comprehension or maybe just sympathy. "Don't do that." he says in the gentlest voice I've ever heard. He fishes in his pocket, takes my hand, and presses something into it. "You go home and be safe and warm, sweetheart. This is no place for you. Get someone to come for you and be safe and warm."
He turns and walks away, as I stand there staring dumbly after him, the quarters he's just passed me feeling like they weigh a hundred pounds in my hand.
I really can't explain how I felt at that particular moment, but it was like the entire world had suddenly rotated a hundred and eighty degrees beneath my feet. Here I was, sulky and in good health, pocket filled with more money than this guy might see in the next year, and he'd given me some of the only money he had because he felt sorry for me. Because he wanted me to be safe and warm. I remember that very clearly. Safe and warm.
I finally unglued my feet and ran after him, leaving my suitcase on the sidewalk. The guilt was incredible, the sudden glimpse into my own staggering self-pity and absorption almost crippling in the face of that one unquestioning kindness. I wanted to find him, to apologise, to give him everything I had.
I looked for over an hour, and I never found him. I kept enough money for a return ticket and gave the rest away to the other people I found sleeping on benches or sitting in their 'houses' made of cardboard and blue tarp. By the time I got back to the station, my suitcase had been stolen. It didn't matter.
I suppose this is why I take it so hard when people are cruel or unfeeling, the way I used to be, why I get so angry about it. I'm nowhere near perfect -- I still have too much of a temper, for instance, tend to carry grudges for too long. But at least now I understand that the world begins and ends with everyone. Some people may not believe this story, which is fine, because frankly, I don't care. I know there are people out there with great beauty in them like I saw that day, and I hope everyone has the chance to see it in their lifetime. Or to display it themselves. Everyone should be safe and warm.
So . . . yeah. You can make fun of me if you like, but I felt like sharing. Anyone else?
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